Dormientis Medicus
by reconstruct chaos
Summary: In which everything is very cuddly and fluffy and you may have to visit the dentist when your teeth rot out from the sweetness of it all.


**THIS AUTHOR'S NOTE IS REALLY IMPORTANT! **

**A/N: As a result of the crackdown, and several other reasons, I will no longer be actively posting on this site. I may occasionally upload stuff, but it's unlikely. HOWEVER, I am posting on archiveofourown. You can find me at archiveofourown under the username jawnwatson. If you have trouble finding me, check my profile page or send me a PM and I'll be glad to help.**

**Thank you for your continued support, and please enjoy!**

* * *

Sherlock Holmes has been with John Watson long enough to be familiar with the many facets of his dearly beloved's personality: he knows the stroppy mood, the happy face, the you're-a-brilliant-nutter expression, the exasperated lilt John's voice gets when Sherlock does something a bit not good, and the Mycroft-abducted-me-and-I'm-going-to-sit-here-in-a-mood sulks. He's well acquainted with every nuance of every expression, can gouge how John's feeling by the lines on his forehead and the curve of his mouth. Sherlock can read John, and he loves it.

As such, he has a favorite mood. Of course he does. And his favorite is the least likely - the one Sherlock himself never thought he'd care for. In all actuality, Sherlock never saw himself falling in love with such an adorable specimen - he never saw himself falling in love at all - but John Watson has the ability to transcend all preconceived notions, as always.

Sleepy John, warm and pliant and soft, is Sherlock's absolute favorite.

* * *

While the man himself doesn't nap as a rule, Sherlock can be convinced quite easily to join his diminutive love on the couch for a cuddle much easier than one would think. All it generally takes is a half-dressed John with weary eyes and a mouth set in a barely-there frown. There's nothing certain ex-army doctors enjoy more than a kip on the couch after a day filled with much wailing and gnashing of teeth at the surgery, and certain consulting detectives are a lot more obliging than they would have you believe.

When John wants to nap, he behaves more like a cat than a five-foot-six-point-five-inches tall man. It starts off with little yawns while he drinks tea. That's when Sherlock prepares - slides his phone into an easily accessible pocket and makes sure there are cold case files on the floor by the couch. Gradually, the yawns melt into stretches; John wiggles in his chair for a bit and massages the old wound on his shoulder.

That done, Sherlock gets treated to the sight of John attempting to wriggle out of his jeans without actually standing up, and pulling off the layers he insists on wearing until what's left is a deliciously rumpled man in nothing but a t-shirt and boxers.

Then comes the cat part. John doesn't speak, just looks at Sherlock from under honey-blonde lashes and saunters over to the couch where Sherlock is usually laying. The good doctor then proceeds to push and prod his lanky love until satisfied with the bodily arrangements, then sprawl himself over said love with a sigh and a grunt. Sherlock never complains.

While John sleeps, Sherlock works. He surfs the internet on his phone and reads case files. Sometimes, he just stares at the ceiling and lets his brain wander. But most of the time, he memorizes John. Every aspect of him, from the little gray hairs in the top of his head that he really hopes aren't there because of him, to the dip in his back where spine meets derriere. He burrows his hands in the ridiculously soft blonde mop atop John's head; trails his fingertips down smooth, strong sides; breathes in the sweet-tea and slightly medical scent of him; revels in the feel of the warm press of John's tummy against his own.

Time always seems to stand still, until the entire flat is wrapped in a haze of sleep-infused warmth, a little bubble of safety in the heart of a chaos-filled city. It's not something Sherlock ever thought he'd enjoy. He had always thrived in danger and movement, never slowing down for fear of stagnation. But of course, John Watson changed that.

* * *

Eventually, John will wake up. He will come into consciousness slowly, rub his nose against Sherlock's neck and hum contentedly. He will laze around for a few minutes more, then pull himself off of Sherlock and saunter in the kitchen to put on the kettle. The flat will stay sleepy and warm for a while, the sunset over London filling it to the brim with soft golds and oranges.

Eventually, the spell will be broken.

Eventually, but not right now.


End file.
